


though your lips are tempting, they're the wrong lips

by olio



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Hand of Thrawn Duology - Timothy Zahn
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 19:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16729626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olio/pseuds/olio
Summary: Flim isn't Thrawn, and yet...





	though your lips are tempting, they're the wrong lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/gifts).



Pellaeon still isn’t sure what hurts more – that Thrawn might have returned and chosen to abandon him, chosen someone else to be near, or that Thrawn really is dead and never will return. He was _there_ when Thrawn died, had seen the red soaking his uniform, the ground, even as the red of his eyes dimmed into nonexistence. He had held Thrawn’s body while desperately trying to keep his lifeblood from escaping, only to be left with nothing but a corpse and blood-soaked hands. Yet he still can’t help but hope when he hears the news of Thrawn’s reappearance.

But now, seeing this supposed Thrawn in the flesh, it’s obvious it isn’t Thrawn. A part of him wishes he could believe it was. Thrawn, beyond such simple things as death, returned from the grave and ready to take the galaxy by storm. And perhaps this time Pellaeon could say something,  _anything_ , about— But no. Instead, he has to deal with this imposter, thief of Thrawn's position, thief of his very identity, all for personal gain. And that he cannot stand for.

“I need to speak with Thrawn,” he says. Moff Disra opens his mouth to protest, and Pellaeon cuts him off. “ _Alone._ He gave me very specific instructions before his…temporary absence.”

Disra opens his mouth again, but before he can get a word out, the false Thrawn waves him off. “I remember. Though one might have inferred from my actions that I did not yet think it time. But no matter, let us proceed. Follow me.” Pellaeon can see Disra struggling to maintain his composure, but to publicly countermand Thrawn would go against his entire charade, jeopardizing all his work.

Pellaeon feels an undignified urge to perform a rude gesture in Disra’s direction as he accompanies the false Thrawn to a private room. He resists, barely.

As the door closes, faux Thrawn opens his mouth to begin who knows what excuses, but Pellaeon is not in the mood. “Stop,” Pellaeon growls, and pushes the other man against the wall, arms bracketing him, holding him there.

Pellaeon knows this isn't Thrawn, but he can't help but imagine what it would be like to slant his mouth over the other man's. It’s part long, long held back wanting, part desire to punish this man who dares steal Thrawn’s place, but it’s all wrong. He doesn’t move right. He would taste faintly of makeup. His scent is far too human, nothing like Thrawn’s, that indefinable alien quality that Pellaeon hadn’t even consciously realized he knew until this moment. Wrong, wrong, _wrong._ Pellaeon is glad for his gloves, a barrier between his skin and unfamiliar textures, one further layer of self-deception between himself and acknowledgment of his own weakness.

But this can’t last. “Did you really think I wouldn’t _know_?” Pellaeon rasps out. Their faces are far too close, and his voice is raw, emotions held in control with Imperial firmness for so long starting to come loose. “You thought you could deceive _me_?”

"Aw shit, you two were..." Not-Thrawn begins. His voice, so like Thrawn’s a moment ago, shifts, and Pellaeon is glad for it, this further distancing between the two. But at the same time he hates it. It’s yet one more reminder that the man he wishes were here is not, and only this interloper remains.

"No." Pellaeon cuts him off. "We were not." But Pellaeon knows he's gazing at the other man with a hunger he can’t dampen, even fully cognizant of the falsehood he embodies.  _Control yourself,_ he thinks. He was never this obvious with Thrawn – or at least he sincerely hopes he wasn’t – but the years and this unexpected reemergence have left him exposed, and the feelings he’d always kept safely tamped down are rising with a vengeance.

“What _is_ your name?” he finally asks. _I can’t keep calling you Thrawn,_ he thinks, but does not add, for he’s loathe to admit it all. Thinking of this man as Thrawn, even accidentally, is far too dangerous, and he knows his heart cannot take it.

“Flim.” He smiles in a decidedly un-Thrawn-like way, but even the strangeness of this alien expression in Thrawn’s – not Thrawn’s, _Flim’s_ – uncomfortably familiar face isn’t enough for Pellaeon to fully separate the two. He knows he has to harden himself. He can’t let weakness overcome him like this – it could so easily prove fatal, fodder for enemies, and worse, for his own heart. And he knows this isn’t fair to Flim, either. Conman though he might be, he deserves better than to have this affection for a dead man projected upon him.

Pellaeon steps back, tugging on his uniform and trying to compose himself. “I have a proposal.”

“Oh, a proposal, hmm? And the two of us only just met.” Flim’s words come out a little too fast, his smile a little too brittle to be genuine. His manner is cocky, which Pellaeon can only presume is his natural state, but there’s more than a hint of nerves around the edges. _Good._ “I do hope you don’t mean for me to pass it on to the other guy. I’d really rather not meet him for as long as that can possibly be arranged. Dying’s _very_ low on my agenda.”

Pellaeon lets this pass. “I propose that you work for me. Leave these fools; they couldn’t plot successfully if their lives depended on it.” Pellaeon lays out his plan: no longer does he desire to return the Empire to its former glory, but he refuses to give in entirely to the New Republic. And having Thrawn by his side would present a far stronger deterrent to anyone considering invading in turn.

Pellaeon knows this isn’t Thrawn, will never be Thrawn, but he can’t help but think having someone who _looks_ like Thrawn, who pretends to be Thrawn, might be enough.

(He knows it isn’t.)

 

 

 

That Pellaeon is a complete wreck over Thrawn is immediately obvious to Flim. He does his best to hide it behind a veneer of Imperial cool, but Flim didn't get as far as he has without being adept at reading character. Especially the character of those attempting to hold something over him. And he is determined to use it ruthlessly.

He would also be lying if he didn't admit he found the whole situation kind of hot. Flim had also not gotten as far as he has without being turned on by a bit of skullduggery. And the idea of stripping Pellaeon of his firmly held inhibitions is irresistible. So he begins his campaign.

He knows it will be a long game, but he's prepared to play it. Pellaeon is nothing if not proper Imperial poster child, repressed as all hells and begging for some scoundrel like Flim to bring him out of his shell, and Flim is happy to oblige.

He begins subtly. Their masquerade necessitates close association, and Flim uses this to fluster Pellaeon every chance he gets. A touch, impeccably proper and helpful, held just slightly too long, causes Pellaeon's face to flush in the most adorable way. Eye contact more direct than necessary while a hand brushes along Pellaeon’s arm, and Pellaeon is once again flustered, glancing away before he betrays more of himself.

All in all, Flim is having a delightful time.

He’s used to being Thrawn now. He still reviews old holovids from time to time for a refresher, but what he truly wants, records of how Thrawn was in private, remain inaccessible. And would it be more fun to seduce Pellaeon as himself or as Thrawn? He’s determined to do it, one way or another.

He’s not Thrawn, never will be, but this is a surprisingly nice side benefit of the job. Pellaeon might be into a dead guy, but hey, what’s a conman for if not a bit of pretend?

 

 

 

Pellaeon is convinced this is a game for Flim. Pellaeon does his very best to hide how flustered the other man makes him, but he can admit, if only to himself, that he _is_ flustered. And it isn’t even entirely the resemblance to Thrawn. They’ve now known each other for long enough that he’s beginning to see more and more of what he believes is the real Flim, and he _likes_ what he sees.

He’s not Thrawn. But there’s something about Flim, the way he pulls off his deception with a studious attention to detail and yet a flair all his own, that Pellaeon can’t help but be drawn to. He doesn’t want to be drawn in, and yet… There’s a part of his mind that can’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss him, to touch him. Even if he isn’t Thrawn. Even if ever letting himself do so is something Pellaeon can’t afford.

But oh, the longer he spends around Flim, the more he finds he _wants_ to.

So if, perhaps, his gaze lingers upon Flim’s lips slightly too often, and if, perhaps, he enjoys the warmth of his hands when they brush together more than is proper, then so be it.

And if, perhaps, he lets Flim push him against the wall, mouth closing over his, that is no one’s business but his own.


End file.
